


Without feet I can make my way to you, without a mouth I can swear your name

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, M/M, More Unauthorized Use of the Captain's Storeroom, Repressed Victorians, Secret Trysts, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: He will be there tonight, of course, at the officers’ mess, as he is every night, dressed in his dark coat that nips in just a touch at the waist, gold-fringed epaulettes gracing down from off his broad shoulders. The meal will be served, the glasses filled, while the conversation between the officers drifts from pleasantries to practicalities and then back again. And the two of them will play their parts – steadfast lieutenant, attentive steward – without offering the slightest indication of what they have done.





	Without feet I can make my way to you, without a mouth I can swear your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> A sequel to [my earlier Jopson/Little story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16136030), with another title borrowed from Rainer Maria Rilke. 
> 
> For Day 11 of the 12 Days of Carnivale: "a long winter's night."

They do not rest for long once they are finished, but quickly tuck in the tails of their shirts and button up their trousers, their sweat-flushed brows already beginning to turn to ice in the frigid air of the storeroom.

Thomas doesn’t know quite what to say, and the lieutenant isn’t helping by also remaining quiet, by not looking Thomas in the eye as he smooths down his trousers and tugs at the lapels of his greatcoat so it sits straight atop his shoulders. Is it merely self-consciousness on the part of the lieutenant, a natural impulse to withdraw after such an unrestrained outpouring of passion? Could it be embarrassment or – an altogether more painful possibility – perhaps even regret? Did some part of him hate himself – would some part of him come to hate Thomas – for what he had just done? For Thomas has known men like that, who acted in impulse under the cover of night, only to fall into anguished self-reproach come morning, and he cannot help but wonder if Lieutenant Little is just this kind of man.

But he does not like thinking like this. Perhaps it would be best not to think about it at all.

Shaking the notion from his mind, he turns and reaches up towards the crate on the shelf just behind him. He winces a little as he stretches, needled soreness pulling deeply through his haunches, and Thomas knows he will be sleeping on his stomach tonight, and most likely the following night as well. His hands search blindly through layers of straw until they finally alight on hard glass, nearly frozen to the touch, and he pulls the whiskey bottle from the crate, holding it out towards the lieutenant.

“What you came for,” Thomas reminds him, keeping his voice soft and measured, the way he always tries to do when speaking to the officers.

The lieutenant glances down at the bottle, finally taking it from his hands with an acknowledging nod of the head, and then his eyes lift up to meet Thomas’s gaze, full of something heavy and half-obscured.

He presses his lips together, a tight regimental line.

“No one can know,” he says.

With anyone else, it might have sounded like a threat, but the words emerge from the lieutenant’s mouth almost as a question, as if he is pleading for Thomas to keep his secret safe. Thomas doesn’t understand; he has as much to lose as anyone if what they’ve done is discovered, and who could he tell that would be of high enough rank to accuse the lieutenant of such a thing and be believed?

The captain, Thomas realizes with a start: the lieutenant is afraid he will tell the captain.

It is true that Thomas spends many hours of his day in the captain’s company, shaving him, dressing him, preparing him for bed, all of which would suggest a certain intimacy between them, one that a less scrupulous man might exploit for gain or favor. For any accusation against a first lieutenant would be easily dismissed, unless the man who made such a claim had the captain’s ear and was willing to make use of it. It is the lieutenant, Thomas now realizes, who might in fact have the most to lose, his rank and reputation and smooth, unblemished back entirely on the line. And yet, in an unguarded moment, he had still chosen to act on his passion, throwing aside the possible risk to himself.

Thomas shakes his head as he gazes back at those dark eyes, looking wider and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen them.

“Never, sir,” he replies, filling his voice with sharp conviction.

The lieutenant’s gaze grows focused, suddenly imploring. “Please don’t—” he says in a quiet breath, nearly swallowing the words. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What shall I call you, then?” Thomas asks, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear, as he does his best to ignore the unexpected bloom of tenderness unfurling itself within his chest.

“Edward,” the lieutenant replies. “Please, call me Edward.”

Thomas nods, about to make a similar offer to the lieutenant – _Edward_ , he thinks, the two syllables fitting softly together like a polished button slipping into its hole – when he hears sounds just outside the storeroom door, a set of creaking steps shuffling down the ladderway, the rough garble of sailors’ voices as they make their way towards the slop room.

Their short-lived retreat from the world is clearly over.

It feels as if there are so many things left unsaid, so many questions left unasked, but he has no conception of how they might begin, and besides, there is no time for anything but the briefest and quietest of farewells before the lieutenant unfastens the latch and slides the door open just enough that he might squeeze through. Thomas watches him go, and then the door is shut closed again, leaving him alone, just as he had been not twenty minutes earlier.

The storeroom is quiet, save for the soft scrape of his boots as he pivots along the floor, the crates of provisions still sitting along the shelves in neat and orderly rows. There is no sign that anything out of the ordinary took place, no evidence of the overheated passions that were unleashed and brought to mutual satisfaction right here among the captain’s stores.

It is as if nothing at all had happened.

Thomas waits a minute or two, listening to make sure that the voices he heard earlier have completely disappeared, and then follows, locking the storeroom behind him before he tenderly ascends up the ladderway.

The lower deck looks just as it did when he went below, with small groups of men gathered about the fo’c’sle mending sail and laying up new rope, no doubt grateful to be in the relative warmth of the ship rather than to be out on watch duty or with one of the work parties sent to strike ice from the rigging. Mr. Diggle is already at work preparing tea and biscuit for the men not on duty, and once the afternoon watch finishes up above, they will come down for their portion as well.

Thomas stands there for a moment, trying to remember what he had meant to do after checking the inventory in the storeroom – a task he had only partially completed, he now realizes – and finding that he cannot for the life of him recall what it was. But the day – such as it is – is soon coming to its conclusion, and at the very least he can consult with Mr. Diggle about his preparations for the officers’ evening meal, which, as always, will begin promptly at six. After that, he will attend on the captain and make sure there is nothing he requires beyond his afternoon tea. Most often, he takes it with honey and a splash of whiskey, and Thomas makes a note to have both on hand. There should be whiskey enough in the great cabin, however, what with the bottle he tucked into the cabinet earlier and the one Lieutenant Little has just brought up.

He wonders what the lieutenant might have told the captain to explain why he was not altogether prompt in returning, whether he would mention encountering Thomas in the storeroom, or if he would keep Thomas’s name out of it entirely. It would be wise, he thinks, to keep their stories straight.

He will be there tonight, of course, at the officers’ mess, as he is every night, dressed in his dark coat that nips in just a touch at the waist, gold-fringed epaulettes gracing down from off his broad shoulders. The meal will be served, the glasses filled, while the conversation between the officers drifts from pleasantries to practicalities and then back again. And the two of them will play their parts – steadfast lieutenant, attentive steward – without offering the slightest indication of what they have done.

He cannot quite believe it himself, even now.

Thomas manages to busy himself for the small remainder of the afternoon, wanting to keep his mind and his hands fully occupied so that there will be no room for anything else, no space for any errant thought to work its way in. Yet he still finds himself entirely on edge, his body thrumming with directionless energy, caught halfway between dread and excitement.

At last the hour comes, the table in the wardroom fully set for six, the first course of mock turtle soup already turning cool and gelatinous in its porcelain tureen. Thomas raps a quick knuckle upon the great cabin door to inform the captain that the meal is ready, but keeps his gaze purposefully lowered as he enters, seeing the captain in conference only with Mr. Blanky and one of the lieutenants, who, thankfully, is sitting furthest from the door. After that, it is a hasty retreat back to the wardroom, where he and Mr. Genge will wait until all the officers are seated to begin pouring spirits and serving the first course. Thomas finds his place against the back wall, standing to his full height and clasping his hands in front of him, one curled neatly over the other. He does not risk looking up as the room begins to fill; instead, he lets himself gaze upon an undifferentiated sea of bright brass buttons and epaulettes, a tiny part of him wondering if by now he could recognize the lieutenant purely by those articles alone. It is only when he is circling around the table with the decanter of Allsopp’s that he allows himself a small glimpse of the lieutenant, sitting next to the captain and Mr. Helpman, but nothing more, nothing that might explain why his heart has set to hammering inside his chest with all the clamor of a church bell.

Lieutenant Irving leads in them in a small prayer before they begin the meal, the assembled company closing their eyes and dutifully lowering their heads as he begins to speak. Yet Thomas, spurred by an impulse he cannot begin to understand, dares a brief upward glance, his eyes searching for a single face among the men seated at the table – only to find, to his shock, Lieutenant Little staring right back at him.

His lips, full and petal pink, are slightly parted, eyes dark like a pair of burning stars.

Thomas is always cold – he has been ever since that May morning they left England – the cold like an ocean he can never swim free of, continuously lapping at the deep marrow of his bones. But at this moment, he can no longer feel it, not with the lieutenant’s heavy-lidded gaze meeting his, not with every part of him entirely aflame, his skin turned hot with a sudden flush of desire.

Every moment of their stolen time below in the storeroom comes back to him: every kiss, every sigh, every touch, every ache. He can feel the warm and steady pulse of the lieutenant’s breath along the side of his neck, the whispered words in Thomas’s ear reduced to guttural sounds of urging, as strong hands grip him firmly by the hips, keeping him in place as they each chase their pleasure to its necessary end. Lieutenant Irving is saying something about God’s bounty and their continued faith, but Thomas can barely hear him, his mind fully occupied with thoughts that would give some blush to God’s eternal cheeks, and surely to those of the heavenly host as well.

He looks back down just as the prayer concludes, desperately hoping that this silent exchange has gone unobserved by the others.

By some miracle, he makes it through the remaining courses, through the cold-smoked haddock and mutton, through the raisin pudding and the sugared tea and after-dinner brandies, through every accidental brush of his sleeve against a shoulder and each squeeze of his hips through the narrow space behind a chair. And throughout it all he maintains himself, never once acknowledging the turmoil that lay within. He would keep his promise to the lieutenant: no one would know.

Following dessert, the officers at last decamp for the great cabin, where they occupy themselves for the last remaining hours of the evening. Lieutenant Irving spends a great deal of time perusing the titles in the bookcase, although at this point he is no doubt entirely familiar with its contents, and eventually pulls down a thin volume and settles himself near the stove. Neptune nudges at the young lieutenant’s knee, clearly hoping for a rub along the ears, and eventually the dog circles in place along his feet and drops to the floor, a thick tongue lolling from its open mouth. Mr. Helpman and Lieutenant Hodgson sit by the sideboard and play chess, as they do nearly every night, although neither of them is very good and they do not bother to help each other become better. At the table, the captain and Dr. McDonald fall into amiable conversation, the doctor’s sanguine personality a perfect counterpoint to the captain’s natural melancholy. And Thomas, after having given Mr. Genge his instructions about handling the unwashed china and the silver, keeps sentry in the doorway, his back to the dark varnished wood, waiting to be called upon. He does not watch as Lieutenant Little stands at the cabin windows and stares out into the engulfing darkness, his hands clasped behind his back, nor as he finally turns around and begins to fill his pipe with tobacco, the embers glowing faintly once he draws in a few initial breaths. But even from the other side of the room, Thomas can smell it, sweet and earthy like the Virginia soil it had been plucked from so many years past.

The space grows quiet for a time, the captain and the doctor’s conversation falling to hushed tones, leaving only the sound of the wind shaking against the side of the ship, as fluid waves of snow softly break against the window panes. Now and again, the surrounding ice shudders and cracks, a reminder of what it would take from them if given half the chance.

By nine, the officers begin to take their leave and retire to their own cabins, leaving Thomas to assist the captain in his preparations for bed. It is a routine he normally takes joy in, for all of its predictable rhythms, but tonight it seems never to end, each task following tediously on the heels of another, until he cannot wait until the moment he is finally free. He leaves the captain with a low-burning lamp and a thick volume of Sir Walter Scott – although considering the quantity of whiskey the captain consumed this evening, Thomas doubts he will progress very far in it before succumbing to sleep – and then slides the door closed as he departs, the lamplight glinting faintly through the gap at the floor.

Everything is still and silent as he makes his way down the narrow corridor. In the distance, the fo’c’sle has transformed itself into a barracks, the men sleeping snug in their swaying canvas hammocks, so tightly packed they resemble nothing so much as hams strung along the ceiling of a butcher shop. As he walks by, he allows himself a single sweep of his gaze at the first door along his left; the lieutenant is already asleep, or else laying there in the dark, for no light emerges from in between the wooden slats of his door. For a moment, Thomas imagines himself quietly sliding the door wide enough that he might slip through, but he pushes the errant thought from his mind before he has a chance to consider what he might have done had he found himself once more in the private company of the lieutenant.

It is something of a relief to finally reach his own cabin, to at last be alone in a space where he need not attend on anyone but himself. He tugs at his collar, loosening the knot of his neckerchief, and allows himself a few deep steadying breaths, the cold air stinging as it quickly fills his lungs.

But here, in this small, spare space, there is nothing left to keep him from facing what he has done – and what things he has allowed to be done to him. Along the tiny bedside table lies his borrowed copy of Ovid, sitting just as it had when he left his cabin this morning, but now it seems that it is he who has been metamorphosed, not from a nymph into a tree or a hunter into a stag, but into a man utterly changed, transformed by the revelation of reciprocated desire and the intensity of its physical expression. To realize how much he truly wanted the lieutenant, and to know now the feeling of his body, warm and powerful against – and within – his own? It was like seeing the world anew, and understanding he could never return to the way it had been before.

For his life, he knows, has been fairly contained. Setting aside the strange circumstances in which he currently finds himself – on board a ship frozen into the Arctic ice – he has never been one to flout convention, never one to think far beyond the rules set out for him. His own needs, his own thoughts – those were negligible things; responsibilities, duties, the obligations that bound him to the larger web of those around him – these were what truly mattered. Yet somehow he had been able to brush aside such hidebound rules with no more than a moment’s consideration. And even now he realizes that he has no regrets, not a single one, for the time he has shared with the lieutenant in the storeroom – and that, if given the chance, he would still choose to do exactly as he had.

Might there be another opportunity, Thomas wonders, another circumstance in which they might find each other alone, and in a shared state of need?

He is slightly ashamed at how excited he grows at the thought of it, and how quickly, as if he is no better than the greenest of youths, lusting after his first pair of bosoms.

Still, he knows it is not his place to seek out such a thing; he is no lieutenant – he is not even an officer – but simply a steward, one who spends his days amongst their elevated ranks while holding none of his own. Despite the liberties the two of them had taken with each other, he could not overstep the strictures that have ruled him for so long within the Navy’s domain. If an offer or approach was to be made, it could not come from him.

The days that follow present the most exquisite form of torture, as there is no escape from his tormentor – not that Thomas would have ever truly wished for a reprieve, for he knows that the only thing more terrible than seeing the lieutenant would be to not see him at all. He serves him at every meal, hangs upon his voice as he stands outside the great cabin during the officers’ command meetings, watches from the corner of his eye as the lieutenant makes his daily inspection of the men each morning. Thomas’s duties slowly begin to slip from the forefront of his mind, and in their place, his thoughts are occupied by more immediate and primal needs, brought to conflagration each time their eyes meet at the mess table or in the dim light of the corridor. He does his best to give no indication of his struggle, even as he knows it to be an insurmountable task.

It is as if that moment in the captain’s storeroom – as brief as it was – has kindled a kind of desperate lust he hadn’t thought possible.

In the waking hours, Thomas is polite, attentive, offering the lieutenant every courtesy he is due as a high-ranking officer, but at night, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he at last allows himself the use of the lieutenant’s Christian name, and there he revisits their time together again and again, the word like a silent prayer on his lips as he seeks some small measure of relief. In time, memory gives way entirely to phantasy, and he imagines himself silently making his way into the lieutenant’s cabin and then pulling back the wool blankets of that narrow bunk so he might slip in beside him. _Edward_ , he would whisper, as they tug shirts up and over their heads, as hands begin to roam and explore regions of flesh previously unseen. _Edward_ , he would murmur, as his tongue traces the rise of each rib and circles teasingly around a navel, and from there descends along a faint trail of soft dark hair. _Edward_ , he would breathe, as he lies pressed back against the mattress, overcome by a sensation of indescribable fullness, each rough collision of their bodies striking a deep note of pleasure that causes him to cry out, again and again. And when it is over, when he catches his breath and opens his eyes to discover himself alone in his own bunk, he is left with nothing but the hollow shame of his own sticky fumblings and a longing for the man who would make his fevered dreams become flesh.

If only the lieutenant would give him some sign, some indication of what he wants from Thomas, or else ignore him entirely except for those occasions where his duties require it. For while they have not spoken privately of that moment they shared together, the lieutenant has yet to withdraw his attentions, and Thomas still finds himself the frequent object of that dark and penetrating gaze. Even so, Lieutenant Little does nothing, says nothing, makes no approach, and Thomas is left feeling entirely adrift. It is a purgatory, being in this state of desire that is both reciprocated and yet not, like watching a drop of ink hang in nerve-wracking suspension from the nib of a pen.

But perhaps the drop would never fall.

If so, he must find some way to strike the lieutenant from his thoughts, to forget – somehow – all that had passed between them. That, it seems, might be the only path for him now.

For some time this struggle continues, his mind circling this way and then that, stubbornly resisting the painful conclusion that the lieutenant no longer desires him – or at least not enough to attempt a rekindling of the passions they had so inflamed that afternoon in the storeroom – until one day in late February, a brutally cold and blustery day, marking what they hope to be the last gasp of winter. Thomas has come into the great cabin to announce to the captain and the assembled officers that luncheon is ready. His task complete, he turns to make his way back down the corridor, and is nearly to the wardroom door, when he feels a figure brush by him and with it the unexpected sensation of a hand quickly slipping past his wool jacket to the front of his waistcoat. Thomas looks up to see a familiar dark head of hair walking through the doorway – and how his heart races at the thrill of this all-too brief contact! – and then down at his waistcoat, where a small scrap of folded paper now lies tucked into the pocket.

It is impossible not to open it and look at it at once, and yet he cannot, for the captain and the other officers are following just on his heels. There is no time for him to do anything but take his place against the wall and wait to serve each course in turn. Even worse, there is no immediate relief or reprieve, for the meal continues on interminably, or so it seems to him, and soon it feels as if the paper itself is burning a hole within his pocket, one that he can sense like a fiery itch against his side.

A lifetime passes before the meal ends and he is finally able to excuse himself for a moment and slip into his cabin. With a faint tremble in his fingers, he unfolds the paper, reading the words written upon it in a cramped and spiky hand.

 _Please, I must see you._  
_The same place_ _—_  
_first watch, six bells_  
_E._

The world beyond him all but disappears as he stares at the note, memorizing every letter, every phrase. Soon enough the words go blurry, losing all attendant meaning, and Thomas is left with only a tight, breathless sensation in his chest, punctuated by each rough tug of his heart. To know that the lieutenant thinks of him, desires him, wishes to see him alone again enough to scratch such damning words onto a scrap of paper?

Reluctantly he lifts the glass chimney from his lamp; with a final glance, he touches the note to the open flame – he can take no risk that it will be found – and lets it burn away to ash.

Standing there in his cabin, Thomas feels unraveled, undone, the lower half of his body already responding to the thought of a secluded meeting in the storeroom. How he will possibly endure the next twelve hours is a prospect beyond all understanding.

Still, he attends to the captain, sees to his afternoon duties, the mending, the laundering, the preparations for tea and the officers’ mess, all of it done unthinkingly, mechanically, for his conscious thoughts are far beyond the requirements of the moment. Part of him waits for the evening meal, for that moment when he might briefly catch the lieutenant’s eye and see what is written there – hope, anticipation, desire strong enough to match Thomas’s own? In turn, he offers the lieutenant the most clandestine of responses to his invitation: a tiny nod of the head, small enough to go unnoticed by all but the one who knows to watch for it.

As he leans closer to pour wine into Mr. Helpman’s glass, the lieutenant’s warm fingers begin to graze softly along the back of his knee, nearly jolting him upright. He recovers enough to merely spill a few drops from the decanter onto the table and then wipes it clean, murmuring his apologies to the clerk-in-charge before backing away towards his position against the wall.

He prays no one wonders why he holds the decanter so low, and so close to his body, and what it might conceal.

The rest of the evening passes no more easily, not the tedious activities of the officers in the great cabin nor the captain’s preparations for bed, not the hour Thomas must sit and wait in the darkness of his own cabin, still fully dressed, as he anxiously listens for the bells that mark the passage of the time. And when they finally do ring out – three faint pairs echoing in sequence from the deck above – he draws an unsteady breath and rises to his feet, equal parts terror and excitement.

He had worried about the sound he might make as he slipped out of his cabin and down the main ladderway, but the wind has picked up, shrieking hard against the outside of the ship, and combined with the ever-present rumble of the ice, as it shifts and groans in partial measures, the noise is enough to mask the sound of his step, even as he descends along the wooden-slatted ladder. He does not dare to carry a lamp or a lantern, but must make his way by careful trodding, for the darkness is nearly total and he can trust no other senses but his touch. The air is far colder below in the orlop, and he burrows a little into his coat, his ungloved fingertips brushing against a metal tin in the depth of his pocket. Remembering the rough passions of that first encounter with the lieutenant, earlier that afternoon Thomas had gone to ask Mr. Diggle for a small portion of cooking grease, which some far-too-eager part of him hopes will be of use.

The orlop is deserted, as it should be this hour of the night, except as he squints he can see that the door to the captain’s storeroom is unlocked, left open but a negligible inch. It is as clear a sign as any.

He pushes the door enough to slip inside and then turns to slide it closed and latch it, careful of the sound of wood scraping against the floor. The storeroom, though, is not completely dark, for there is the flicker of a single candle casting a faint amber light onto the walls, and as he turns and looks into the space, he realizes it is partially hidden behind one of the crates, obscured enough that its bright flame would not be visible to anyone passing by the door. But it is not the candlelight that is commanding his attention, for standing there in the middle of the storeroom is the lieutenant, his features half cast in shadow, half in light.

On board _Erebus_ , Thomas recalls, there is a device in the possession of Dr. Goodsir, a wooden box atop spindly legs that allows him to capture images and record them permanently onto glass. Before they left England, he had seen it demonstrated, for Lady Franklin had insisted that the officers all have their portraits taken, and he had watched as Captain Crozier sat impatiently still for several minutes as the artist hid behind the box underneath a thick curtain. It was hard to believe that a man’s image could be created in such a way, but she had brought the pictures to show them the day before their departure, and there was the captain, true to life, his hands resting along his lap just as they had been when he sat before the camera.

But it is the image before him, held within this single breath, that he would have captured, painted onto a square of plate glass that he might look upon any time he wished. For Edward – the only name Thomas can think to use now – is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and there ought to be some way to keep him forever, just as he is.

“You’re here,” Edward murmurs softly, as if he cannot quite believe it, even now.

“Yes,” Thomas answers, his feet compelling him forward.

Neither of them hesitates, for what need is there – why should they deny themselves any longer when they have already waited all this time? Thomas reaches out with both hands to clasp the sides of Edward’s face, tugging him closer until their lips finally meet, a collision that leaves him dizzied and breathless, reduced to mere sensation. It is exactly as he remembered – or perhaps even better – for they know each other now, more than they did during that first encounter, and their time apart has only served to stoke their hunger, to draw greater pleasure from a press of the lips or the stroke of a tongue.

Edward’s hands circle restlessly around Thomas, at his sides, along his waist, sliding underneath his coat to the layers below, palms tracing up his chest to toy with the pewter buttons of his jacket.

“I had so hoped…” Edward mutters, his mouth still hot against Thomas’s. “Dreamed…” 

“Of what?”

“This.” He stills, lips parting with a labored breath, and opens his dark eyes to drink Thomas in. “You.”

Edward reaches down and clasps him by the hand, drawing him further back into a corner of the storeroom. For a moment, Thomas does not understand where they are going, until he looks to see that several of the crates have been piled together to create a tiny alcove, a small space along the ground sheltered from a direct view of the door. A greatcoat – clearly Edward’s own – lies draped along the sides of the crates and part of the floor, and he has brought a pair of blankets to cover the rest, creating a cozy woolen nest that might serve to keep the brunt of the cold at bay.

Thomas smiles, his thrumming heart feeling altogether too large for his chest, and begins to slip off his own greatcoat. He shivers once deprived of its protective bulk, but not for long, for he pulls Edward down onto the floor with him, arranging the coat so it covers them both.

Nothing remains to come between them, as lips and hands find each other yet again, as fingertips move to unfasten the buttons of a waistcoat and slip underneath the untucked hem of a shirt. The storeroom is so cold, but Edward’s hands are warm, smoothing along Thomas’s stomach and ribs, brushing against the hair on his chest. It is surprising to see, this outpouring of passionate tenderness from the otherwise taciturn and undemonstrative lieutenant – like watching a placid river suddenly rise up and overrun its banks – and it quickly stirs Thomas to his own response. In the warm darkness between their bodies, his fingers move of their own accord as they loosen the buttons along Edward’s trousers and take him in hand, a quiet groan emerging from the lieutenant’s mouth that Thomas silences with a kiss.

Their leisurely explorations take on a greater urgency then, each of them spurred by the other to greater and greater heights of desire, like a fire feeding solely on itself. The world might have come to an end in such a conflagration, and for the two of them perhaps it does.

They sleep a little when it is over, waking in each other’s arms, only to give themselves over to passion once more as the night runs its course.

The following day Thomas can barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion, but the faint smile on his lips refuses to be dislodged.


End file.
